"Sh-sh-sh,” Jack whispered and moved his hands up so that his arms encircled her waist. He began to drop kisses on her eyes, her wet cheeks, her mouth and chin, even her ears. Kristin blinked, less frightened now that he wasn't pressing against her down there anymore. The kisses were light and sweet, and he was murmuring to her in a wordless, reassuring way, stroking her neck and back, her arms and shoulders.
She sighed, eyes closed, forehead against his lips. If he'd just let her scoot off the bed, move away so that she could close her legs, but at least he wasn't—oh dear, he was rubbing the side of one breast again, making the nipple ache and tingle. She thought he'd asked if she liked that, but before she could answer, he covered her mouth, and she felt cooler air on her back as she realized that he had somehow undone the buttons on her dress while she was so bemused with new sensations and anxieties.
He moved his lips immediately to her throat. Of its own accord, Kristin's head drooped back while he kissed her throat and slid everything—her dress, her chemise—from her shoulders. She tried to stop him, but the chemise straps bound her arms, and he kissed her bare breasts.
"So pretty,” he whispered, right against her nipple, and then he kissed it. Kristin went weak with shock. She had a terrible ache low in her stomach where he had pressed against her before.
"I think I'm sick,” she whimpered.
Jack laughed low in his throat. “Feverish maybe,” he said, mouth still fastened to her breast, fingers disposing of her corset strings.
"What are you—"
The corset came away. She heard it hit the floor and then his lips drew on her, and her whole body bucked as sensation ran like summer lightning in every direction—through her breasts all the way to her fingertips, through her aching loins and thighs and down until her toes curled. She was helpless to resist when his hands encircled her bare waist, one thumb brushing into her navel and sending another shock through her. Somehow while she lay back, his tongue tormenting her breasts, he had undone all her buttons—dress buttons, petticoat tapes, the button that held her drawers. She felt everything being swept away, and he lifted her up, naked, to kiss her.
What she had imagined before, she now felt, the electrifying abrasion of his hair against her breasts, which were agonizingly tender. She groaned, wished he'd come closer, couldn't think. Her breasts pulsed, ached for another touch, but Jack was sitting beside her on the bed, kissing her mouth. Beside her! Kissing her ear, licking it. She shivered and tried to pull him against her breasts.
"Minute,” he muttered, bending. She opened her eyes and saw that he was taking off his second sock. That he had no ... no clothes ... at all ... on. What she had wished for before, she now got. He pulled her onto the bed, rolling with her, on top of her, between her legs again, his hands circling behind her thighs to—she gasped, her hips rising of their own accord. And then he hurt her.
"Stop that!" she cried, trying to squirm away. “What are you doing?"
Jack sighed and murmured, “Hush ... hush,” and the pressure abated. His fingers returned, touching, stroking, rubbing, sliding into her a little. She twisted beneath his touch, gasped, sighed, forgot the hurt as pleasure built and flowered, and she reached with her hips for whatever was coming, something so wonderful, so catastrophic that she let him press into her again because she had to find it, that explosion of feeling, that throbbing that burst in her and in Jack too. She felt it happen.
"Good lord!” he muttered into her tangled hair as his body went limp and heavy upon hers. Kristin lay still as the pulsing slowed, died slowly ... slowly, leaving her as light as the kiss of sunshine on a mild spring day, light enough to float away, a spring leaf on the wind, light enough to disappear like a white bird flying into mist. Jack's weight was gone, but his warmth remained. She snuggled her head into his shoulder, smooth skin under her cheek, tickling curls against her chin.
"I must be the prince,” he murmured against her hair. “Because I won the princess."
"M-m-m,” she breathed, turning her face so that her lips brushed his chest. She was floating free, her mind as blank and lazy as a cloud in a blue sky.
Chapter Thirteen
Kristin awoke and wiggled deliciously under the silky sheets. She wouldn't have believed one's body could feel so happy. Turning on her side toward the empty pillow, she studied the indentation at the edge. He had slept all night beside her, perhaps holding her while she swam in exquisite dreams, in rosy, drifting hues like a perfect dawn. If any art lover would buy pictures of color without subject, she could paint such a canvas, fill it with the glowing, pearly light of satiety, cloud wisps of happiness, and brilliant explosions of dark ecstasy.
Her body stiffened as she stopped feeling and began to think. That, she realized, had been “the act” of which Sister Mary Joseph had had so much to say. Oh Holy, Blessed Mother of God! What had she done? Jack hadn't lied; the kiss, the touch, they hadn't been anything compared to what happened last night. The unbelievable, unimaginable act. How had the first people ever thought to do such a thing? How had they ever imagined that they'd like such a thing? If anyone had described it to Kristin, she would have run for her life.
The serpent must have put it into their heads. And she—Kristin—had fallen under the serpent's spell as easily as Eve, because, contrary to Sister Mary Joseph's warnings, Kristin had enjoyed it. She was even afraid that if Jack wanted to do it again, she'd enjoy it again, because he knew exactly how to make her do so. He was, God help her, the devil's follower; Jack too had enjoyed it, and she was willing to bet that he hadn't given a thought to procreation. Anymore than she had.
Sister Mary Joseph had absolutely said one should never, never commit “the act” without procreation in mind. Kristin herself hadn't had even one fleeting thought about babies. She wasn't sure she'd had any thoughts at all until just this minute. She groaned aloud and sat up in the luxurious bed. Mortal sin! That's what she had committed. A mortal sin that she couldn't mention to her priest. Good heavens! What if he asked her for details? If Sister Mary Joseph knew about “the act,” no doubt Father Boniface Wirtner did. He might not even agree to absolve Kristin, no matter what the penance, no matter how sincere her act of contrition, if she ever got up the nerve to tell him what had happened.
She dropped her face into her hands, shivering. All these years she had thought herself a virtuous person, and yet lurking in her soul—no, in her body; last night had had nothing to do with souls—lurking in her body had been the seed of original sin. Seeds! How foolish she had been to think that seeds were planted by kisses. She had a very clear idea now of how seeds were planted, right where they grew, of course. But Jack would have planted no seeds. Sweet, innocent babies wouldn't grow from sin. They would grow from proper, unenjoyable wifely submission. If anything grew in her womb, it would be a monster.
She'd stop thinking about it. But it was his fault that her immortal soul was in such danger! She could never have thought up the things he did—they did—last night. That's why he was gone, because he was ashamed of himself. And so he should be. She turned and hit his pillow with a small, clenched fist. The pillow crackled. She lifted her hand, and beneath it was a note from her husband. “Sweetheart,” it said. That evil hypocrite, she thought. Calling her “sweetheart.” “Sweetheart, have a lovely day shopping. See you this evening."
This evening? To do what? Well, Kristin was no dummy. She might not be able to control her sinful nature when he had his hands on her, but she didn't need to do that again. She'd—she'd leave town. That's what she'd do! What luck that Jack had given her so much money. God must have moved her to take it so she could escape.
Kristin sprang out of the bed as if the very sheets were contaminated. Unfortunately, she had forgotten how high the four-poster was and landed in a heap on the floor, discovering in the process that she wasn't wearing her nightdress. Sister Mary Joseph had been very clear about what married couples should wear to bed. Lots! That's what she'd said. And Kristin wasn't wearing anything. She
was naked! Sitting on the flowered carpet in the middle of an elaborate garland, rubbing her foot, and sniffling.
What if she'd broken her foot and couldn't escape? She edged cautiously toward the bottom of the bed, pulled herself up on a hand-carved bedpost, and gingerly put weight on the injury. Oh, thank God! It didn't hurt any worse or buckle under her. She limped toward the wash basin and ewer, intent on scrubbing every vestige of Jack's touch from her body. If only she could do the same for her soul. Wishing she had time to order a tub, Kristin washed with rough haste, noting that he had injured her, remembering the pain—and the pleasure that followed.
She chose a flared navy skirt, a high-collared white blouse bedecked with tucks and ruffles, and a navy jacket to go over it, topped by a navy boater with a kelly-green ribbon and bow. Because she would be traveling, she needed something dark to hide the showers of soot from the train. Then she quickly but carefully packed her cases, memories of all those wrinkled clothes that she had brought to Genevieve's prompting her to act with care.
Kristin gathered her luggage without anyone to help her and hastened to the broad stairway. Halfway down, she peeked into the lobby. Standing on the marble floor under the great chandelier were her husband, that snake, and three other men. Kristin scrambled back up the stairs, juggling her belongings awkwardly, and hurried down a mile of Brussels carpet to her room.
Once she was safely behind the door, it occurred to her that he might return to the room, so she picked up her things, scurried out, and waited around the corner. No one arrived but maids. After fifteen minutes, she crept back down the stairway and peeked cautiously into the lobby, then hastened across to the desk.
"Was that my husband I saw?” she asked.
"Ah—” The clerk paused. “That'd be Mr.—"
"Cameron. Of Breckenridge."
"Oh yes, but I'm sorry, ma'am. He's gone."
Kristin smiled brightly. “I'm checking out. He has to stay longer on business, so he'll pay the bill."
"Yes, ma'am."
Kristin hurried out the door, looked furtively both ways, and headed for the Union Depot, which was so large and had such a distinctive mansard roof that she couldn't miss it. Once inside, she wove through the crowd to Seamus McFinn's baggage room. “Good morning, Mr. McFinn,” she said.
"Why, young Miss Traube. Say, there was a fellow lookin’ for you a while back. Don't recall exactly when."
"Yes,” said Kristin. “If he comes around again, I hope you won't tell him where I've gone."
"Wouldn't think of it. Didn't the first time,” said Seamus. He was one of several men who had proposed to her during her first stay in Denver. “Where are you goin'?"
"What's the first train out of here?"
"Well. Reckon that's the excursion train—to Golden, Black Hawk, Central City, Georgetown, an’ Silver Plume."
"Excellent,” said Kristin. “Just point me in the right direction, and I'll buy a ticket."
Mr. McFinn's eyebrows shot up. “'Tis for sightseein’ an’ the thrill of the Georgetown Loop, so unless you want to go to one of them towns—"
"I do. Which window?"
"Over at the Union Pacific there. They bought out the Colorado Central."
"Nice to see you again, Mr. McFinn.” She picked up her belongings and scampered to the Union Pacific ticket window.
"You're in for some thrills and chills, ma'am,” said the ticket seller.
Chills? “When does it leave?"
"Momentarily, ma'am. You'll have to hurry.” He pointed to the gate where a crowd of gaily dressed tourists milled about. “Less you want to go this afternoon."
Kristin rushed across the depot and slipped in among the tourists. When Jack discovered her absence, he'd never think of looking for her on an excursion train. Several minutes later, she climbed aboard, hauling her sketchbook, her sausage sample case, her clothing valises, and her parasol.
"What a charming hat,” said her seat companion. “I'd never have thought of matching navy blue and Irish green."
"I'm delighted that you like it,” said Kristin. “I changed the ribbon myself.” She was about to tell the lady that she was an artist, then thought better of it. Jack would be looking for an artist, so if she were smart, she wouldn't do any drawing. It seemed a pity, for she had the window seat, and they were bound to see something of note. At the first rumble from the engine, she put up her parasol.
"That's bad luck!” said the woman.
"Soot and cinders are about to shower us,” Kristin explained and thrust the parasol over the window opening.
"Faith, we'll all be killed with you putting up that—"
"Have you ever had a cinder in your eye? It's worse than death."
"What an unlucky thing to say,” cried the woman and changed her seat. Kristin was delighted. With no one sitting beside her, she could sketch.
"Your ticket, miss.” Kristin handed it to the conductor. “Finest scenery in the world coming up, ma'am,” he assured her. “Just don't scream too loud when we're on the high bridge of the Georgetown Loop.” Kristin swallowed hard, remembering her terror as they crossed the Gold Pan Trestle over Illinois Gulch. This trip couldn't be worse than that one. “Most ladies like to come with a gentleman,” said the conductor, handing back her ticket. Oh? she thought. Like Jack, the snake?
Before she could get her sketchbook out, Kristin dozed off, having had a tiring night, and didn't awake until the train pulled into Golden. Hoping that she hadn't missed any beautiful vistas, stifling a yawn, she got out her sketch book just as a buxom lady in a plum-colored skirt and shirtwaist and a black straw hat with a twelve-inch purple feather fell into the seat beside Kristin. If I'd stayed in Denver, I'd have had new hats, thought Kristin. He'd urged her to buy hats, dresses, jewelry.
"Oh, my blessed Aunt Molly, you're an artist!” the woman exclaimed.
"Just a doodler,” Kristin mumbled, remembering that she didn't want anyone telling Jack about a real artist.
"My name is Kelly,” said the woman. “Kelly, same as the color of your hat band. That's a strange color combination, but I suppose it's because you're one of them fine ladies who likes to draw and paint because it's fashionable."
Kristin wanted to defend her, well, semi-professional status, but she couldn't really do it and maintain her anonymity. Instead she tried to look vacuous.
"I never had no opportunity for them ladylike pastimes,” said the woman.
"It's very pleasant,” mumbled Kristin. As if galvanized by the mountains themselves, into which they had moved while she slept, her hand began to sketch the outlines, the shadings. Oh, it was beautiful! She was glad she'd taken this particular train. “How long does the trip last?” she asked.
"You'll be back to Denver in time for dinner. It's only fifty-four miles to Silver Plume."
"What?" The train was going to carry her straight back into her husband's lascivious clutches?
"This is a tourist junket."
He'd be waiting for her in the depot, warm smile, hot eyes, tempting hands and body.
"The train goes up to Silver Plume and then comes right back, giving you two chances to have the vapors between Georgetown and the end of the line."
The thought of that body, the parts she'd seen, touched ... “The vapors?” mumbled Kristin, trying to drive Jack's tantalizing image from her mind. Vapors? Was Mrs. Kelly a patent medicine saleswoman? Was she about to try to sell Kristin some weird—
"Most young ladies like to go with a suitor, so they can swoon into the fellow's arms on the high bridge. I'm surprised a pretty thing like you isn't with a suitor."
For the first time it occurred to Kristin to remove her wedding ring. She hated to do it; the ring was so beautiful. Still—she slipped it off under cover of the sketchpad, put it into her reticule, and resumed sketching.
"Not much of a talker, are you? Maybe you're too high-toned to chat with someone like me?"
"Not at all,” Kristin protested halfheartedly. In the silence that followed
Kristin did rapid sketches of everything that passed, including mines. By running away, she was passing up that commission to do a mural on the walls of the Single Jack Cafe. She had many sketches of miners from her first trip to Breckenridge and sketches of mines from the Denver trip with Jack, although mines weren't, in truth, very pretty. They were a blight on the beauty of the mountainsides.
She couldn't believe the train went back to Denver, back to her husband. Why hadn't she asked Mr. McFinn more about the route? Now she'd have to get off somewhere and stay the night in a hotel, which reminded her of the Windsor Hotel, which reminded her of Jack. Of its own volition, her hand began a new sketch. She was shading in the hair on his torso when Mrs. Kelly exclaimed, “That's a naked man!"
Kristin, caught unaware, stammered, “Only part of one."
"I ain't never been so shocked in my life!"
"He's my brother.” Since she'd concealed her ring, she couldn't say that he was her husband.
"What kind of a family stares at each other unclothed?” Kristin flushed as she looked at her drawing, which showed Jack's chest, navel and some of his stomach. Fascinating musculature. She remembered it in detail, as much as she'd seen, although at the time she certainly hadn't been thinking about art, not while he was luring her into “the act.” Mrs. Kelly gathered up a voluminous carpet bag that sat at her feet and stamped down the aisle, muttering to herself. Kristin flipped the page and began to sketch the approach to Blackhawk.
Having had difficulty keeping his mind on mining syndication, Jack stopped at the room to see if his sweet wife might be taking a nap or having her midday meal sent up. She was probably a bit sleepy. Jack chuckled. What a lucky man he was! And what a surprise she was! Her kisses had been very satisfactory—both in her father's house and in Breckenridge, but making love to Kristin was a real treat. A man didn't expect a virgin bride to be so ardent. He slipped his key in the lock, thinking that the new syndicate was going to make him a rich man and his new wife was going to make him happier than he was rich.
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